


Roads and Rivers (Wars and Songs)

by Damkianna



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cultural Differences, Extra Treat, F/F, Loyalty, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 01:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14965892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: There will be peace between the great horde commanded by the khatun and the empire of Dao—if all goes according to plan. The westerners have brought gifts and tribute, and even a princess; and it's just Taban's luck, that she should be assigned to serve that princess as a bodyguard until the terms are all agreed and she may be delivered safely to the khatun. Taban's given her oath, and it's inconceivable that she would break it—it doesn't matter whether shelikesthis princess or not. Westerners are soft and useless, everyone knows it, and the princess will marry the khatun and stop being Taban's problem.(Except that isn't exactly what happens.)





	Roads and Rivers (Wars and Songs)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> You had such wonderful prompts and thoughts about the possibilities for this pairing, I couldn't resist—and obviously the result ran away with me a bit. ;D I just hope you like this, and that you've had a great Fandom5K! \o/
> 
> The worldbuilding here borrows extensively and obviously from the Mongol Empire and from China, but this is in no way meant as an accurate depiction of any real-world locations or cultures. Title borrowed from the poem [Pantoum](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/141996/pantoum-5910a36743606) by Sandra Lim.

 

 

The two camps were laid out in long curves, facing each other, marking out a circle in the steppe grasses. A full moon, perhaps, if the observer were inclined to poetry; a fat and lopsided full moon, if the poet were inclined to honesty. Even General Sarnai's ger—large and round and well-appointed, as befitted her status and rank—looked sleek and unassuming in comparison to the great bulky tent-palace the westerners had set up on their side.

How very many horses it must have taken, to move such a thing! Taban tilted her head, eyeing it, and tried to guess how much it all must weigh. It had not been easily constructed, either. She and Ganbatar had watched yesterday, the whole relentless flurry of it, countless dozens of westerners scurrying about as the thing took on gradual shape above them.

Ridiculous.

Bayar snorted beneath Taban, shifting her weight from one foreleg to the other, as though she had heard the thought and agreed. And right that she should. Taban leaned forward a little, absent, to offer the mare a quick scratch along the neck.

"Still gawking?"

She turned, and leveled a flat stare at Ganbatar—who smiled sunnily into the face of it, striding up to rub Bayar's shoulder.

"As if you'd never seen a westerner before in your life," he added. "Like a child born in grazing season, crossing a river for the first time! Adorable."

"I knew westerners were wasteful," Taban said. "But at the very least I'd thought they had the good sense to be lazy. All this fuss!"

Ganbatar laughed. "Well, it's a matter of some importance to them," he said mildly, "to bring this war to an end. They've brought us a princess for the khatun, you know. Jujai saw her."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. Only for a moment, though. At least that's how Jujai tells it—they brought her in one of those carts without wheels that they carry around—" and Ganbatar drew the shape of the thing in the air with his hands, narrow and angular. "—with the sides all veiled, everything covered up. Jujai thought it was just another few tents in there, at first, but then she saw the cloth move, and the princess looking out from behind. Lovely. Big eyes."

"They are giving her to the khatun," Taban said, dry. "She had better not be ugly."

"She had better not be stupid," Ganbatar said. "You've seen Namchin. The khatun doesn't mind ugly."

"Ah," Taban murmured, "but a pretty westerner is so much easier to find than a clever one."

"Uncharitable! But then you so often are," Ganbatar said with a grin. "You'll have to learn to like them sooner or later, if we aren't at war with them anymore."

"I don't not like them," Taban said, looking away across the camp—across the space between, to that ludicrous tent and the banner flying from its top. She'd hardly even thought of it as a war, as such; since she was a child, Dao had been there, rich strange land to the west that was for raiding but not for living, whose soldiers sometimes crossed the border river and were dealt with before they could reach grazing land.

The clans to the north, to the south, to the east, were dealt with the same way. Everyone knew it was permissible to defend grazing land, and, by the same token, to take what was left undefended. That didn't make a war.

Except that to the emperor of Dao, it had. He had sent more soldiers, more banners, armies, and the khatun couldn't have done anything but answer in kind, with all the strength of the great horde hers to wield. The horde was vast, and Dao could not match its archers; but the emperor had black powder, and in the last dry season the steppe had burned. There had been a rumor, too, that he meant to build a wall, so large that no one could ride to its end—and tall enough that the fire could not cross over, when he burned the steppe again.

But he had died. And now—well.

Now his son had sent a princess for the khatun. And a ludicrous tent.

It was commonly understood that westerners were soft, and easily offended, and none of them knew how to ride those narrow spindly horses of theirs. Taban had killed them, with arrows and spears and her own curving sword; Sarnai had not become a general by refusing to fight when the khatun sent her to battle, and Taban followed Sarnai, and that was that.

Battle was battle. She didn't not like westerners. They existed, and must be dealt with one way or another.

But that was no reason not to mock them a little, when the opportunity should arise.

"And who is that?"

Taban blinked. She had been staring into the middle distance, unthinking, but Ganbatar could be forgiven for assuming she'd been looking that direction for a reason. There were still far too many westerners moving in all directions, but the span of grass between them and the clan camp had remained uncrossed. Almost scrupulously so.

And yet now there was a man crossing it.

Taban squinted at him. "Courier," she guessed. It was something in the way he moved, the quick easy step—it made her think of riding Bayar, distance eaten up as the sun passed over them, at a pace that could be kept up for days at a time. He was used to running, this man, and sometimes a very long way.

And he went, without hesitation, to the general's ger.

"Well! Look at that," Ganbatar said. "You may be right."

"I am always right," Taban said, lifting her chin. And she couldn't have said why, had no true reason for it except some creeping presentiment she couldn't define, but she found herself dismounting; so when one of Sarnai's kheshig came to fetch her, she was already on the ground, and could leave Bayar standing there, chewing peacefully.

 

*

 

General Sarnai looked up the moment Taban pushed aside the flap over the doorway—lowered despite the warmth of the day, presumably to allow the courier to pass along his message in relative privacy. "Taban," she said, and then, without further hesitation, "You know why we are here."

"Yes, General," Taban said. And then, obliging, when Sarnai gestured for her to continue, "Because the emperor of Dao has sworn to respect our border, and all the lesser kings who follow him will do likewise; and he has offered us gifts and tribute and a princess to marry the khatun, if we'll do the same."

"Just so," Sarnai agreed. "We rode a long way to reach this place, because it was close enough to the river for the westerners, and it'll be a long ride back. This princess of the west, she has no kheshig, no khevtul, to guard her; in the west, they carry her around in a cart without wheels." She made a motion of resignation: what could be done about these bizarre habits? Westerners.

"Yes, General," Taban agreed.

"You saw the messenger?"

"Yes, General."

"He came to repeat to me the emperor's names and titles," Sarnai said, "and many other things that do not matter, and to list for me again all the things the emperor in his generosity and wisdom has offered us, and so on and so forth. The westerners like these gestures, I think, and we'd better make one of our own."

She paused there, briefly thoughtful, hand upon the hilt of her sword; and Taban bit her own cheek so she wouldn't speak out of turn through sheer impatience.

"Yes, we'd better," Sarnai said again, and then looked at Taban wryly. "And besides, I think the khatun won't like it if we let this gift of a princess die. You know some western?"

"Enough," Taban agreed, trying to ignore the sense of slow foreboding creeping up her spine.

"Good," Sarnai said. "That will help. You'll go to her and swear yourself into her service, Taban, as if into the khatun's own kheshig. You will be her guard, because she has no other, and defend her with your own life, until she has safely reached the khatun. Do you understand?"

There was only one way to answer, and Taban knew it. "Yes," she said, before she could stop herself—because the temptation was great indeed.

To die for the khatun, for Sarnai, for a fellow soldier; any of these was possible, and Taban knew it, and had accepted it a long time ago. But for this? She struggled not to let her mouth twist in disdain. This wasn't any of the ways she might have hoped to demonstrate her loyalty.

But Sarnai had given the order, and Taban would follow it.

"Then go," Sarnai said, and Taban turned on her heel and went out, because she could not rightly do otherwise.

 

*

 

She took only what she needed, and most of it already had its place strapped across Bayar's back: her sword, her bow, spare clothing; fishhooks and knives, and the ground dried meat she had for rations. It was impossible to say how long this would take, how many days they would be trapped here while the westerners performed interminable formalities and ceremonies—and Taban would have to spend it all wherever the princess was. That was what it meant, to be kheshig; to be _one_ kheshig, with no other soldiers to relieve her, no khevtul to take charge in the night, responsibility for the princess's life on her shoulders and hers alone.

She didn't want to. But what did that matter? She would go to the princess as Sarnai had ordered, and she would swear her oath, and then what she had sworn she would do.

She drew a deep breath and let it out, long and slow, and rubbed her hands along the broad sturdy length of Bayar's nose. And then she led Bayar across the circle of grass and over to the ludicrous tent, in the middle of the westerners' camp.

They were looking at her—all of them, or at least that was what it felt like. She ignored them and kept walking, brought Bayar to a halt in the grass and murmured in her ear that she must stay. "Unless," Taban added after a moment, "you hear them trying to kill me. Then you had better come."

Bayar blinked, her round soft eye watching Taban steadily, and then snorted through her nose and reached down for the grass again.

There were western soldiers outside the tent, and they stared at her uncertainly but didn't stop her—conscious, perhaps, that they'd been sent here to make peace, and not wanting to offend her; or else they hadn't been told what to do if a single horde soldier walked up to the tent alone and went in, not one of the scenarios they had prepared themselves for.

She _was_ stopped inside, barely a stride from the tent's vast flap. More soldiers, and a small officious man who talked very fast, and Taban knew western but not enough to follow him; she waited until he was done, gazing at him steadily as his voice rose and fell and he gestured up and down and sideways. And then she tilted her head, and said to him very carefully and mildly, "The general has sent me to your princess."

"To—our princess," he repeated, slow enough at last to be understood.

"Yes," Taban said. "I am here to—" damn, what was the word? "—to watch her," Taban tried, "so she does not die."

That was wrong somehow, but she thought at least he would be able to work out what she'd intended by it.

And it seemed he had, for he looked at her a moment longer and then went to find another small officious man with whom to confer in a lowered voice. That one went away and then brought back two more, and then another pair of western soldiers, and then another somewhat taller officious man with a peculiar beard.

Taban waited, and did her best not to look impatient, and probably didn't succeed. One of the soldiers was eyeing her, something not unlike a sneer twisting the corners of his mouth, and she set her hand on the hilt of her sword very gently and smiled at him very wide until he looked away again.

At last they all seemed to come to some sort of agreement. The man with the peculiar beard sniffed and stepped toward Taban, and warily inclined his head. "This way," he said, and she swallowed all the words she couldn't say and followed him.

The ludicrous tent was large indeed, and not built on anything like the round ger-frames Taban was used to; it was all draping silk, strings of pearls and green stone, and the westerners seemed to have laid down not only mats and coverings, but actual tile in some places to serve them as a floor.

When the man came to a stop at last, Taban thought for a moment that he'd misunderstood her entirely, leading her behind one last layer of silk and into a space that had—well, a great deal of things in it, to be sure, but no princess.

Except then the man bowed very low, and said, "Illustrious Highness," to what looked to Taban like nothing but a painted screen.

And there was a whisper of movement, cloth shifting, and the screen said very softly, "Honored Minister Zhang," and that was when Taban realized the princess was behind it.

Westerners.

Taban sighed sharply through her nose, and stepped forward before Zhang could talk some more—make a formal announcement, or start a tea ceremony, or whatever it was that westerner manners insisted must come next. There was no purpose in this nonsense, and she didn't have the patience for it; she must give her oath as she had been ordered, and she could hardly defend the princess as a sworn bodyguard from the other side of a paper screen.

"It is not permitted—"

Zhang's voice was sharp, startled, but he stepped forward as if to catch Taban's arm and then flinched back—thinking better of it, no doubt, remembering that she was a steppe barbarian with a sword to hand.

"That is not my problem," Taban said, and rounded the screen.

Jujai had been right: the princess did have big eyes. They were fixed on Taban immediately, and almost as round with startlement as the princess's pretty painted mouth. She was seated—or, no, kneeling upon some large silk cushions, and Taban had surprised her halfway through the act of rising from them. Her robes were silk too, of course, and her hair was done up with so many pins Taban could hardly hope to count them, jeweled and lacquered, covered in metal flowers and trailing strings of beads.

"You are the princess?" Taban said to her.

The princess did stand, then, and swallowed; and then straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, brought her hands together in front of her and tucked them into those wide embroidered sleeves, and said, "Yes."

"Illustrious Highness, ten thousand apologies—she was sent by their general as a gift—"

"Of course, Minister Zhang," the princess said, very even. "And we do not wish to offend; it was wise of you to bring her to us."

"Your servant is humbled by your acknowledgment," Zhang said. "But of course she cannot attend you alone! Maids will be sent shortly, Illustrious Highness."

"Your consideration is appreciated," the princess said, and that seemed to be all that was required to soothe him; Taban glanced over her shoulder to see him bow, and then he shuffled back through the flap they'd come in by without looking up again.

"Why are you here?"

The princess's tone was clear, cool—and Taban realized belatedly that she herself had made no move to bow, not like Zhang. That had probably been rude.

Well. If she would be tending this princess until they left this place, and all the long ride back to the khatun in Altankhurem, rudeness would probably be the least of the princess's complaints.

"The general sent me to watch you," Taban said. "I am Taban, and I will serve you as—" and there was no way to say it in western that she knew, so the proper word would have to do. "—as kheshig, and keep you safe, until all this is done with and you have been brought to the khatun."

"You will keep us safe," the princess said, very flat.

"Just so," Taban agreed, and—well. She hardly had to give the whole elaborate oath, did she? This princess wouldn't know the difference, and it would bind Taban as wholly whether it was done in full or not. So there was no reason not to do it now. "I swear it," she said in western; but it didn't sound right, done that way, so she said it again in her own tongue after. "If you come to harm it will be because I have died already, and I will not leave your side," she added in the same manner, to the princess's uncomprehending face. And then, because she could and it soothed her somewhere childish and petty, "No matter how much I would like to."

There. It was done. Taban bit back a sigh.

"What shall I call you?" she thought to ask next.

The princess had kept her eyes lowered—but at this, for a moment, she glanced up at Taban, and there was a brief wry slant to her mouth. "Illustrious Highness will not suffice?"

"It is a little long for a warning cry," Taban observed.

"Very well," the princess said. "We have many titles and many names—you may call us by one of them. Xiuying."

"Xiuying," Taban repeated.

"And—forgive us if we have misunderstood—General Sarnai has sent you to us, to serve us as bodyguard until the negotiations have concluded and we are taken to your khatun?"

"Yes," Taban said.

And nothing about this situation was pleasant in the least, but at least, she thought, there was some satisfaction in seeing that the princess was no happier about any of it than Taban.

 

*

 

A princess of the west, it turned out, did very little.

Taban had been told she was allowed to leave again, to tend to Bayar, and had almost laughed in the princess's face—did she truly understand so little? Taban could not go back out and leave her here; Taban could not go anywhere she did not go. That was her purpose.

She had explained as much, when she could, using the smallest words she could think of so she could be sure she wasn't saying it wrong. Minister Zhang had been summoned again, and some other servant sent out to take Bayar wherever it was the western horses were kept, and to give her water. And Taban—

Taban sat in the ludicrous tent by the edge of the paper screen, and waited, and did her best not to yawn.

It wasn't that _nothing_ was happening. Servants passed in and out, of course, and ministers—not just Zhang, there seemed to be an endless supply of them—came to pay obeisance or deliver lavish compliments, or to inquire after the princess's health and comfort, and so on and so forth. One of the few things they did _not_ do was give her any sort of report on their own activities, on anything that must have been happening outside; and Taban had had some idea that a princess was not the same thing as a general, or for that matter the same thing as a khatun, but even the youngest of the khatun's children would one day be expected to demonstrate some grasp of military command. And this princess was not even a child! Did no soldiers answer to her at all?

Lucky indeed for her, Taban thought, that now she had Taban. It was a wonder no one had killed her yet, if she had not even a single raiding arban to call her own and no allies who did and were willing to report to her. It wouldn't even be difficult—all that silk and embroidery could not hope to stop a blade.

In the evening, more servants came, to remove those endless jeweled pins one at a time and brush out the princess's hair, and wash her feet, and a dozen other things. Taban took the opportunity to rise, to pace out this section of the tent properly and get a sense for its dimensions—and at the very least, the princess's half-dozen sleeping cushions were far enough from the nearest fall of tent-silk that it would be hard to stab her through them. That was something.

At last the servants were finished, and went away again. None of them had moved in such a way as to catch Taban's eye, but she still couldn't help but breathe more easily when they were gone. If any of them _had_ slipped a blade into the tent, they couldn't have picked a better time to use it.

But they hadn't, and now they were gone, and the princess was as safe as she had ever been. The servants had blown out nearly all the hanging lanterns when they had gone, and the princess had the last of them lowered down beside her; Taban could see the flicker of it through the paper screen, the princess's shadow thrown tall by it. The princess was—was sitting there, just sitting: head angled low over the light, fingers skimming absently through the fall of her loosened hair over her shoulder, and Taban was struck by a sudden wistful urge to know what look might be on her face at that moment. And, just as suddenly, the certainty that she could not find out—that if she stood and walked to the edge of the screen and the princess turned to her, all Taban would see was that composed and carefully-painted face, as neatly put-together as ever.

A strange thing to think. As if it mattered. Taban was here to keep her alive, not to look at her.

Taban shook her head at herself, huffed out a breath—and then found herself pausing, crouching down in the dark with one hand all at once on the hilt of her sword. What had made her stop? Had she seen something? She opened her eyes wide, softened her gaze at the same time, in the way that made it easy to pick out the motion of running saiga from the ripple of grasses in the wind; but whatever it might have been, it did not recur. Had she heard something, then? She closed her eyes instead, tilted her head and breathed out and didn't breathe in again. The whisper of the princess's hair against silk, yes, and footsteps—but of course there were footsteps, there were so many westerners moving around all the time—

It was impossible to understand what had happened, for a moment. The dark, the hush, Taban's feet solidly beneath her; and then the barest brush of silk against her fingers, as if a breeze had picked up across the steppe; and then a light. A _light_ , bright and blinding, and a sound that struck her like the blow of hammer against anvil, and she was—she was on her back. She was on her back, she ached, a high tone singing uselessly in her ears and every other sound coming from impossibly far away. Light, again, but not like before. Unsteady but continuous, not the same sort of flash as before.

She was trapped, she thought distantly, and for a moment it seemed that was why she couldn't move. And then her body jerked, she breathed in, and no—it was only silk over her, a great pile of the same pale stuff the whole western tent had been made out of.

She still had her sword—didn't she? She grappled for the hilt of it, and yes, it was still there at her hip. She had sense enough to be careful, to draw it with slow precision, because she didn't know what was happening, didn't know whether it was safe to draw attention to herself. And of course she kept it sharp enough that there was no need to saw; she caught the silk between her boots, gripped another handful in her free hand, and drew it taut, and then she pressed the blade's edge against it and it parted.

Fire. That was the source of the unsteady light—fire. At least half the westerners' camp was burning, and Taban couldn't see past it, couldn't pick the shape of Sarnai's ger out of the darkness beyond it.

She was in a dim low place between—ah, between one half-crumpled support for the ludicrous tent and another, bamboo poles that had cracked and bent and come apart from each other, silk still draped drunkenly over them. And now, at last, some sound was coming to her past the endless shrieking tone in her ear: faint cries, and the crackling of all that flame.

And if no one had found her, if she hadn't been moved since the light-sound, then she couldn't be far from the princess.

The best way to keep from being seen was to duck back beneath the silk, so that was what Taban did. She sheathed her sword again, because this would be clumsy enough without trying to keep it in her hand as she went, and then lowered herself down, and crawled along on her belly. Only a little way along, she realized that where the tent rose up in front of her was—it was the screen, the princess's paper screen, the frame half-crumpled.

"Princess," she hissed, and damn, damn, what was it the woman had said? "Xiuying—Xiuying," and she felt along the ground before her, pushing what was left of the screen aside. Cushions, cushions; so many cushions, and of course they were all silk, so with every single one she thought that surely _this_ time she was touching one of Xiuying's robes—

There. That was a hand, an arm. Limp, but then perhaps Xiuying had been knocked down by the blow, had struck her head or had fainted with surprise and fright. Taban followed the arm to a shoulder and found no blood along the way, which seemed promising.

And then all at once the body tensed beneath her. She lurched, awkward reflex, back onto one elbow, and jerked her free forearm up to shield her face from—

From the lantern. The hanging lantern, and the chain it had been hung from struck her in the shoulder and glanced the barest blow against her cheek, and then she braced herself and shoved back against it and was, all at once, looking into Xiuying's wide startled eyes.

"Taban," Xiuying murmured, barely loud enough to hear.

Not bad, Taban supposed, considering the lantern was all Xiuying had had to hand—and yet that in and of itself was troubling. Didn't she have a sword? Didn't she have a _knife_?

She gripped Xiuying's shoulder firmly with one hand and went for her own waist with the other, and was startled, bewildered, when Xiuying caught her wrist. Not a caution or a warning, but _tight_ , desperately, bruising; and Xiuying's whole body was strung tight as a bow; and in the dim uneven light, Taban could just barely pick out her face: perfect and pale, composed, and only the tense line of her mouth to give her away.

Taban stared at her. Was she—surely not. Taban had sworn, however grudgingly, and Xiuying knew it perfectly well. What was she playing at?

"There is no time for this," Taban bit out, "and you need a knife."

Xiuying blinked up at her, and her grip around Taban's wrist softened enough to let Taban pull free—pull free, and reach for one of the small knives she kept at her waist, pick loose the ties that held the sheath to her sash and hold it up.

"You need a knife," Taban repeated, and shoved it into Xiuying's hand. And it looked ridiculous, steppe hilt and beaten leather clutched in Xiuying's narrow pale fingers, her lacquered nails; but Taban had nothing else to give her, and it would have to do.

The lantern had not been out when the tent had collapsed: it had burned a ragged gap whose edges were still glowing, dim and red, and crumbling away in blackened tatters. When they had both crawled through and safely into the grass, Taban could see that Xiuying's robe had burned, too. Just at the lower edge, where her crossed legs had been resting beside the lantern—but her shin and ankle only looked pink, not badly blistered, and she was moving well enough.

Taban hustled her back into the grass, pressing her low to the ground, and when they were at a safe distance—or at least distance enough to make them a little harder to see, if anyone were looking—Taban turned and pushed herself up a little bit, far enough to pick out the shape of the camp and take some measure of the destruction.

And she could see, too, that there were figures moving amidst the rest of the tents, across the grass between. For a moment, she felt nothing but relief. And then she understood.

"We must find someone," Xiuying murmured, "one of the ministers, a general—we must tell someone that I am alive. Call out—"

"No."

"Taban—"

"Be _silent_ ," Taban hissed at her, rolling close enough to press a palm across her stupid painted mouth. "Those are not your ministers, princess. Look at them more carefully."

Xiuying's gaze stayed on Taban for a long moment, stubbornly uncooperative; but then at last it flicked away, and—yes, there it was. The worst of the lingering false sound in Taban's ears was fading, and now she could hear it: the sound of a blade sinking in, the choke of a throat filling with blood. Surely now Xiuying understood.

She let her hand soften over Xiuying's face, and then withdrew it; Xiuying's eyes were very wide, and in the dark she looked very pale, but at least she didn't scream. "What are they doing?" she whispered.

And perhaps the kindest thing that could be done for her was to explain it, even though she must already know. "They are finding everyone who is still alive," Taban murmured, "and they are killing them. And they will kill us, too, if they find us, so we had better get away from here at once."

"We cannot," Xiuying said.

And any and all urge to be kind to her dissolved, ash on the wind. Taban gritted her teeth, and reminded herself that if she shouted, they'd both pay for it equally. "We _must_ ," she murmured instead, as sharply as she was able when she must stay quiet. "If we stay where we are—"

"I thought at first it had been your people," Xiuying interrupted, still looking out across the camp, and—ah. Perhaps it hadn't been quite so foolish of her after all, to worry that Taban finding her there and reaching for a knife had boded ill. "But that was stupid. The explosion—that was black powder."

"That?" Taban couldn't help asking. She'd seen black powder used before, but only from a distance: the smoke rising, and the way the grass had still been burning after. She'd heard that some of the emperor's soldiers used it with arrows, that there wasn't just flame when they landed but a blow, a rush of air. She hadn't known at the time whether or not to believe it.

"Yes," Xiuying said. "And only the emperor may order its use. It is given to no one except by his command."

Taban stared at her. "Your emperor did this?"

"I do not think so."

Taban sighed. She shouldn't have expected the ways of westerners to make sense. "But you just said," she began, trying to work out whatever it was she must have missed, "that only he could—"

"That is how it is meant to be," Xiuying amended. "But the emperor—you must understand, his greatest concerns involve the dangers of war to the south. Since he rose to the throne, he has wished to secure peace in the east. He would not profit by this. It must be someone else." She paused, still looking out through the grass at the dim figures moving through the camp; and then she glanced thoughtfully at Taban. "If one of them wandered off alone—could you fight him and win?"

"Of course," Taban said. As if there were any other answer. She would not have been fit to serve as kheshig if she couldn't defeat one soldier alone. "But none of them are alone. There must be—" and she knew western numbers, but only up to ten. She gestured with her hand instead, encompassing the whole area of the camp. "Look at them all. I can do it, but not quietly. And what would it serve?"

"They carry no banner," Xiuying murmured, "but then they would not. There must be some evidence. Orders they bear in hand. A seal. They must act under some authority."

And that was true enough, Taban supposed. The black powder implied as much, if it were so carefully regulated as all that. But even without it—they didn't look like raiders. Their armor was clean; it matched, all the same style.

"Well, there must be some other way to discover whose," she said aloud, "because we cannot do it now."

"But—"

"We cannot."

Xiuying was staring at her, and her face had done that thing again: gone cool and smooth, her eyes remote and glittering. "Of course you must do what you think best," she murmured.

Taban wanted badly to grab her and shake her—but that wasn't likely to help. "As if I could!" she said. "I cannot go without you, princess. And if you will not go, then we will both stay here and die, which is not best for anyone."

She stopped; Xiuying was looking at her strangely, uncertain and measuring, and she didn't know why. Maybe it was just her tone. Maybe Xiuying wasn't used to being yelled at, even quietly.

And then after a moment Xiuying looked away, and said, "And what would you say is best?"

Taban pushed herself up a little further, and risked a glance. The westerner soldiers might be killing all the people they could find, but surely even they understood it would be a waste to kill good horses. "That you should come with me," she murmured, "and together we will go and find Bayar."

"Bayar," Xiuying repeated.

"My horse," Taban said, and Xiuying glanced at her and then away and then—at last!—inclined her head in gracious imperial agreement.

 

*

 

Of course they couldn't simply climb onto Bayar right there at the edge of the camp and ride away. Xiuying wasn't much more weight than a full pack, but it would still be more than any western horse following them would have to carry. Bayar was quick and smart and sturdy, but western horses did have longer legs.

So Taban cut all the horses free at once instead, and sent Bayar trotting off in the middle of them; and then she and Xiuying crawled off together in another direction entirely, and kept low in the dark until they were far enough away that the burning camps were nothing but a faint glow in the distance.

And then Taban turned them toward the river, because that was surely where Bayar would go. She kept herself between Xiuying and the camps, and now that it wouldn't cause any inconvenience, she could draw her sword and keep it drawn—but she could see no sign that anyone had noticed them or meant to pursue.

And when at last all they saw behind them was distant smoke, and the sky had begun to grow pale with dawn, they reached the riverbank; and Bayar was indeed there, with all Taban's supplies still strapped in place across her back, and half a dozen western horses some way further down the bank.

Taban grinned to see her, and she flicked an ear in Taban's direction and kept on drinking calmly, as if to say she had been wondering when Taban would arrive.

Xiuying went to the water straightaway, drank and splashed her face and then turned to lower her leg into its coolness—her burned leg, Taban realized, so maybe it had hurt her a little bit after all. But she was all right, still awake and quiet, and they were as safe as Taban could ask for the moment; so Taban kept an eye on her but let her have a little distance, and walked over to say hello to Bayar and scratch her withers fondly.

And then, of course, it was time for them to argue again.

Taban didn't intend it. They began well enough. She retrieved a little dried meat for Xiuying to eat, and a clean deel that she might wear instead of her burned silk robe—in a darker color, too, that wasn't as obvious against the steppe grasses as all that white and peach and cream.

They were close to the border, of course, and it would be a long ride to Altankhurem indeed, just as Sarnai had said. Taban spared half a moment to wonder whether she was still alive, and then closed her eyes and made herself put the matter from her mind; alive or dead, Sarnai was for the moment beyond their reach, and Ganbatar and all the rest of them, and there was nothing to be done about it.

Altankhurem. They could manage, if they must. Better to leave the western horses; Bayar was strong, and knew the way, and if she had to go without water for a day or so she would be all right. Taban couldn't be sure whether the same was true of the western horses. So they would take Bayar, and go, and if they were careful and perhaps a little lucky, they'd be all right. Xiuying would be delivered safely to the khatun, and Taban would be released—and, better still, they could return with many soldiers, many horses, the banners of the great horde flying overhead, and ride to the border itself and beyond. They would learn then whether it had all been a trick, whether the emperor of Dao had been betrayed or had even lost his throne—or whether he might yet keep the promises he had intended to make.

All she meant to do was to say as much to Xiuying. Except that when she broached the subject of what it meant, that this should have happened, and what they were to do next, Xiuying listened with her eyes cast down, and nodded along very attentively, and then said, "Yes. So you see, I am sure, that we must go west."

"West?" Taban said, blank. "East would be by far the safer. It is a long road to Altankhurem, that is true, but with these horses we will be faster than any dozen soldiers in full armor. You must see it would be better to go east."

And that look came upon Xiuying's face again, that featureless look like a lake without ripples. She turned her head and tilted her chin up, and began to comb her damp fingers through the long fall of her hair, but it was like they were back in the ludicrous tent, like she had inclined a head full of jewels and tucked her hands into her embroidered silk sleeves, the way she said, "We will not go east." And her voice, Taban thought, the same cool flat tone that had made Taban so conscious all at once of having failed to bow.

Well, Taban would not bow this time either, even if she also could not argue. She turned away from Xiuying and plunged her hands into the river, scrubbed them across her face and scalp and along the whole length of her own thick braid, which still smelled a little like burning silk. Because there was nothing else to say, and Xiuying had to know it. Taban had sworn, and where Xiuying went Taban must also go, however much she wished it were otherwise.

She stood again, and went over to Bayar to dig her waterskin out of her pack, since she might as well fill it now. West. She hadn't ever liked going west; it had always seemed such an ill-favored direction, the place where the sun went to die. And where the two of them would go to die, she thought sourly, because their luck hadn't been any good to start with and going west surely wouldn't improve it.

She crouched to fill the waterskin, and when she stood again she noticed absently that Xiuying had stood also—and then she looked again, and it was—it was like the moment Xiuying had grabbed her by the wrist, the tight hard line of Xiuying's shoulders and that sharp, heavy stare. The moment, Taban thought, when Xiuying had believed Taban would stab her—but she had Taban's knife now. What was she afraid of?

"Taban," Xiuying said, quiet but very clear. "We must go west."

"Yes," Taban said slowly. "As you have said. And when we do," and she raised the waterskin and tilted it pointedly, "we will probably want water."

"You mean you will go."

"What?" Taban said, bewildered. "Yes, of course. I am your kheshig. I go where you go. And you have said you will not go east, so I will not go east."

For the first time, the barest furrow of a frown crossed Xiuying's brow. "But you do not want to go west."

"And what does that matter?" Taban said. "I am sworn to you. I will not break an oath because I do not _want_ to keep it. If that were so it would not be an oath."

It was so simple, so obvious, that she felt stupid saying it; and yet it seemed it needed saying. And looking at Xiuying just then, at her wide dark eyes—somehow this simple obvious thing was nevertheless a surprise to her, and Taban remembered all at once thinking that no soldiers answered to Xiuying, that there wasn't even a single arban at her command and hers alone. Even Minister Zhang, who had bowed to her so respectfully and called her by such fine titles—he had talked to all those other officious men before taking Taban before Xiuying, and yet not to Xiuying herself. What had she said to him? _It was wise of you to bring her to us_. Xiuying hadn't ordered it done, hadn't even been told of Taban's arrival.

"I go where you go," Taban said again, more quietly. "And if that is west, then it is west." She cleared her throat, and then made her tone lighter, with some small effort. "There is only one problem, Illustrious Highness: we do not have a cart without wheels."

"A cart without—?" Xiuying repeated, and then all at once she broke off, and lifted a hand to cover her mouth—she was trying not to laugh, Taban realized, and there was no reason why the thought should be so pleasing, but it was.

"And I could not carry you alone in any case," she added, and then clucked a little out the side of her mouth at Bayar. "So you will have to ride."

 

*

 

The first few days weren't so bad.

This wasn't wise; Taban didn't change her mind about that. But she supposed that at least no one would expect them to be so stupid. If the western soldiers were looking for them, they probably weren't looking to the west.

The river where they'd found Bayar was a small one, shallow and fast-flowing—not the border river, but following this one downstream would take them to the border river. That was easy enough. Taban had done as much many times—not to the border river, of course, but she had ridden as much distance at much the same pace as a girl, just for the joy of it.

In a way, it was like a long strange dream. They hadn't slept, the night of the black powder; they had been crawling through the grass, and then running, and then walking, and then at dawn they had found Bayar. And of course they would have to ride together—Taban hadn't thought twice about it, had helped Xiuying settle herself into the saddle and had mounted up herself behind. She had walked Bayar in a slow circle to make sure they weren't too poorly balanced, and then they began.

And at first, Taban's head felt as wide and empty as the sky. Now and then a lone thought would drift by, cloudlike, and she would watch it idly as it went, until it had grown small with distance and vanished. The breeze was pleasant, that was one of them. How long it would take them to be found and killed was another, and like this, strange and tired and far away from herself, it seemed no more pressing an observation than had the sensation of the breeze.

And Xiuying. She sat awkwardly, for a time, and Taban rued it and pondered all the unkind words with which she might describe this later to Ganbatar. And then she sat more awkwardly still—the first soreness setting in, no doubt, and Taban was moved with a faint gentle pity for her. They had covered ground well, and Taban had looked now and then and had caught no sign of soldiers or horses on the horizon, so she drew Bayar to a stop a little earlier than she might have otherwise. They ate—more dried meat, neatly crumbled, but for once Taban was glad not to have to chew, and they couldn't risk a fire but Bayar was warm to lie against and snored only a little. No silk, no cushions; but Xiuying looked half-asleep already in the fading light, and made no complaint.

The next day, though, it was hard to stay so placid. Taban slept deeply and woke early, and packed up almost without speaking—Xiuying stood and watched her, quick dark eyes following every motion of her hands and arms as she bound everything away and settled it all back on Bayar where it belonged, but asked no questions. She was still stiff with discomfort in the morning, as awkward to ride with as a fresh unbroken saddle, and then—

Then, in the afternoon, either exhaustion or the sheer repetitive motion of Bayar's smooth steady gait got the better of her. The high firm cantle was between them, but Xiuying had at last begun to lean back against it with something approaching relaxation. And she had all along been within the circle of Taban's arms; Taban must sit behind her and must be able to reach the reins, there wasn't any other way to do it. But now she was—she was moving with Bayar, with Taban, instead of jostled awkwardly against them, and suddenly Taban's head was no longer an empty sky. It was full of how strange it was to ride _with_ someone, when Taban had so much more often been alone; and how warm she was; and that even after a day and a half of riding, after washing in a river and sleeping on the ground, somehow her hair still managed to smell of whatever western princesses were bathed in: molten gold, Taban thought, or powdered lotus blossoms, or the milk of a thousand prize mares.

In a way, it was almost a relief to see the glint of light off of water ahead of them. It was a good reminder: they were doing something stupid and they were probably going to die, and it was all because of Xiuying. That was more important than picking a name for the thing her hair smelled like.

The steppe still stretched away from them, on the western bank. It wasn't as though all at once they were standing in the middle of the kingdoms of the west. But Taban could feel her shoulders grow tight and tense, and one hand stayed on Bayar's reins where it belonged but the other kept drifting to her hip, to the comforting weight of her sword.

If Xiuying died and she didn't, if she was forsworn—she'd have to snap it, throw the blade in the dust and never pick up another.

By evening the land had begun to change, as Taban had known it would. The steppe wasn't all flat, only mostly; she'd seen hills before. But not so many slopes, so many _trees_ , and oh, she didn't like the west. She didn't like the west at all.

Everything only grew stranger as they went further. When they stopped to rest that night, it was in a glade by a stream, beneath the broad spreading branches of something with far too many leaves, the sky half-covered with it. How could anyone sleep like this? She could barely hear the wind, and when she could it was—it was the leaves, slapping against each other unevenly, not the quiet soothing sigh of grasses swaying. That sound could cover up a footstep far too easily; western soldiers could find them in the night and they wouldn't even know it, and at least if Taban were dead she wouldn't have to worry about breaking her oath—

"Are you all right?"

Taban looked up. And there, too, another annoyance: it was so much darker beneath these trees, even at the edge of this little woodland. She could barely pick out the pale moon-roundness of Xiuyang's face, never mind the vague shadowed blurs that might or might not be her eyes.

"Fine," she said, carefully hushed, looking away.

"Is someone following us? Taban—"

"No." She stopped and sighed, and made herself say, "No, I have seen nothing. We are not safe; but we are not any likelier to die than we were yesterday."

"You must not think I am an utter fool," Xiuying murmured after a moment. "It is only that I—I fear whatever must already be in motion, whoever it was who meant to kill your general and my escort, my ministers, and have us all to war again. They act against the emperor, and if he does not know it then he may be in greater danger even than we are, and all the empire is at risk."

Taban looked up at the black leaves, the stars beyond—the way they appeared, and then with the wind, the motion of leaves, were wiped away, and then returned. It was like westerners, she thought, the things they hid from each other and themselves, where Taban's eyes expected a vast wide-open sky.

It wasn't uncommon that there should be dispute, over clan leadership or even over the loyalty of the great horde. There were duels, abductions, assassination attempts—the khatun had survived all three, had a fresh scar crossing her cheek and jaw from the most recent. And she had kheshig to guard her all day, khevtul all night. It was only—

It was only that there was always some declaration of intent. Blood feuds between clans were undertaken publicly, common knowledge. You demonstrated your contempt in unmistakable terms, you spoke loudly of your distrust and your disdain, and if then you caught your target alone in the night without allies and shoved your knife into their back, well—you were proven right, your judgment justified, because they had not been clever enough or strong enough to stop you.

If some handful of petty western kings didn't care to come to terms with the khatun, then all right: they should have ridden up with their armies, attacked the treaty camps in daylight, and if they'd won then war would have prevailed, and if they'd lost then the right to object would be lost with them, and the emperor's will carried out. All this—this black powder and fire, slaughtering the injured in the night, and the emperor not even knowing it had happened—what was the purpose in it?

"If only we are able to reach the imperial palace, and quickly," Xiuying was saying, "then perhaps there is a chance we may prevent it."

"The palace," Taban repeated.

There was a pause. "Surely your—your khatun has such a thing, in Altankhurem?" Xiuying said.

"Yes," Taban agreed. "She decreed that we must have a city, with walls and fixed houses set into the ground, and she has sent for architects from the south and east. The palace is not finished yet, and it is said she will not consider it so until she has ridden a horse through all its halls and corridors—she wishes it to be large enough to be fit for such a thing, you see. But," she added, wry, "your palace is not like this, I think."

"No," Xiuying agreed, and Taban couldn't see her well enough to be sure but it sounded, listening to her voice in the dark, as though she might be smiling. "No, that is true."

"Tell me about it," Taban suggested.

"I—do not have so much to tell as that," Xiuying said slowly. "My chambers in the women's palace were very beautiful. Polished sandalwood, inlaid with silver; silk and jade and porcelain, I cannot name it all. Servants burned the sweetest incense, and played music all day long. And the inner courtyard garden, at this time of the year, is full of pear blossoms. The petals fall so thick in the pavilions, it looks like snow."

She fell silent, then, and Taban waited attentively but there was no more. Had she fallen asleep? Forgotten what she wished to say next? Surely the palace of the emperor of Dao was not one lovely room and a courtyard.

"What the rest of it is like—I do not know," Xiuying said at last, very quiet. "I have never been anywhere else. I remember playing there as a child, and the nurses who came to care for me; and sometimes my mother was brought from her own rooms to visit me, though less as I grew older. I thought I would never leave, that all the world would come to me as songs and poetry, and rumors from the servants whom I had given gifts, who would tell me what I wished to know.

"And then I was told I would be given to the khatun, and a palanquin was brought to the courtyard to retrieve me. I told myself that was not so different—that a palanquin, a tent, they were only different sorts of rooms. And then everything came apart, and you dragged me out into the grass, and—Taban," she murmured, low, and Taban caught the movement of her face in the darkness, turning, a faintly paler swathe of shadow. "Taban, the east is so large. We rode and rode, and there was still more. The sky is so big, in the east."

Taban stared at the soft smudged shape of Xiuying in the dark, and couldn't think what to say in reply.

Little wonder she'd sat so stiffly on Bayar; it must not only have been soreness, that first long dreamlike day. Because Xiuying had never seen anything like the great broad steppe stretching out before her—had never felt a horse move beneath her, or stepped into a flowing river, or slept on open ground with a knife in her hand and a horde travel-pack to cushion her head.

"You did not even ask me," Xiuying was whispering, soft and wondering. "Whether I could do it, or how I meant to accomplish it. You gave me a knife as though it were only right that I should have one and be trusted to use it, and when I said we must go west—you went west. Even though I think you do not like it."

And that, at least, Taban had the words to agree with. "I do not," she heard herself say. "I know there will be roads, and many people all in the same place, and—" oh, this western was a stupid language, there were no words for anything important! "—space that is all taken up, not even enough to ride in. But if that is where we need to go to save your emperor and his empire, then that is where we need to go." She paused there, as a thought occurred to her. "You do know where it is, then?"

"Oh, yes," Xiuying said, "yes. I have seen maps of it all. There will be a road soon, and then Wulantou—that is the nearest city to the border. And from there, a great stone road to the capital. That is how you may know an imperial road: they are stone, and have no tolls to pay. Poor men must know the way to the emperor, too, or at least that is what they say."

She murmured this last drowsily, sleepily, and was already leaning up against Bayar. Taban heard her yawn, muffled by her hand, and—

And it felt presumptuous suddenly, as it hadn't ever before, to think of lying there beside her—westerners were, it seemed, so _careful_ with their princesses, putting them away in rooms and courtyards, carrying them on their shoulders and keeping them behind screens. Taban was conscious all at once of being close enough to Xiuying to touch; of having already touched her, all day long, though at the time Taban had thought nothing of it.

But what did it matter, that Xiuying was braver than Taban had understood? It changed nothing. They would ride to the capital and probably die, and if they didn't then they would turn around and ride back and Xiuying would be given to the khatun.

It changed nothing, Taban told herself, and she lay down beside Xiuying and closed her eyes; and if it took a long time for her to fall asleep, that was because of the endless unfamiliar noise of leaves.

 

*

 

Xiuying was right: it took them only part of the day, and not even at a particularly difficult pace, to reach Wulantou.

According to Xiuying, as cities went, it wasn't large. But it was larger than Taban would have liked it to be, and it was—it was nothing like a camp, ill-defined and open, that could be ridden away from and left behind at any moment. It had walls, gates, and loomed so tall it couldn't be ignored; and the _people_. Such a great terrible press of people! Bayar could move no faster than a walk, and they might as well have dismounted to walk beside her—they did precisely that, in time, because riding only drew more eyes to them.

And that, perhaps, was the thing Taban liked least of all. The eyes, the attention, the whole oppressive weight of looks and stares. She supposed it made sense enough—that even here, horde barbarians were hardly a common sight, and especially one alone. One alone, and following around a westerner, at that.

They were only passing through, at least. That was some comfort. They would cross the city to the western gate, and there Xiuying was sure they would find the stone road that would lead them to the capital. Taban told herself this and made herself ignore the itch prickling its way across her shoulders.

She should have known better, she thought to herself later. But she had never been in a western city before, and hadn't known what to expect, and there were so many people looking at her. Little wonder that she hadn't realized the danger until it was nearly too late.

They were following the great general flow of city movement, the sun fat and red and beginning to sink low ahead of them, and, as was their habit, arguing again—only idle, Xiuying claiming she had been told once that there were places in cities with beds for travelers, that they could spend one night at least on something other than the bare ground. Taban was listening with half an ear, scoffing, telling her that yes, Taban must go where she went; but all that meant was that if she tried to spend a moment longer than necessary here, Taban would pick her up and carry her the rest of the way.

And then there was the sound of a sword being drawn. A straight sword, Taban thought, a western sword, and in the time it took her to think it she had already drawn her own, turned and met the other blade with a ringing clash of metal.

"It _is_ the barbarian!" someone shouted—not the armored man in front of her, but she was too busy bracing herself, shoving him back to give herself room and then following with a sharp kick to his gut, to look and see who it had been.

The one man stumbled back, fell to a knee with a cry and a clatter of armor, and she barely had time to aim another blow at his head before two more shouted and rushed into the gap. Suddenly it was all chaos: the crowd around them had begun to shout, to push away, trying to get clear of the fighting, and Taban couldn't see Xiuying but that was because she had caught a second blade against her guard, had to turn into the third so at least it would strike her in the shoulder—where the leather of her armor was thick with seams—instead of across the chest.

If only she were at a little distance, had Bayar beneath her and her bow in her hands! She could have killed all four of them in a dozen of Bayar's strides, with Xiuying safe in the saddle in front of her.

But Bayar was behind her, and with any luck Xiuying was, too, and her bow wasn't to hand and wouldn't be much use in such close quarters anyway.

The third sword bit deep but not deep enough to cut her, so she ignored it and set her attention on the owner of the second, leaned into their caught blades at an angle and pressed down. Of course she couldn't turn it back on him, she didn't have the leverage; but she _could_ force the point into his boot and through his foot. He groaned through gritted teeth, and when she let go he pulled it free, reflexive, and then skidded in his own blood.

He would struggle to keep up, if only she could force a little distance, get the third and fourth to follow her. And where was the fourth?

The third had withdrawn, was swinging again, and the fourth—

Xiuying screamed.

Taban whipped around, helpless, searching, and the next thing she knew it was all pain, her vision darkened and in pieces, like—like she was looking not at stars, but at the whole world through the gaps between leaves. She stumbled, disoriented, and for a moment couldn't even tell whether her sword was still in her hand; and then she heard the whuff of Bayar's breath, the sound of hooves, and had just enough sense to duck clear.

Bayar's kick went over her, over and a little to one side, and either someone's armor had crumpled or someone's ribs had cracked. Maybe both. Taban felt herself grin, not too dizzy to be fierce with satisfaction; and then she wiped at her face and discovered that some of that blotting was blood, dripping down—when she'd rubbed the worst of it away for a moment with the heel of one hand, she could almost see properly again.

Xiuying had her knife—Taban's knife—but of course she had only half an idea what to do with it. Still, that made her an excellent distraction for the fourth man, who had her in his grip but hadn't quite managed to get the blade out of her hand; and a moment later Taban had come up behind him, had taken him by the shoulder and pressed the curve of her sword to his throat.

"Wait," Xiuying said instantly, and so Taban restrained herself and didn't cut.

The man swallowed; Taban could feel the motion against the blade, transferred to her hand.

"You were looking for us," Xiuying said to the man, drawing free of his hand with pointed and deliberate care and straightening the sleeve of her deel, smoothing it down with her fingers.

"Did you think it would not be noticed, Illustrious Highness?" the man said, flat. "There were not enough bodies in the camp. One of the ministers told us, before he died, that you had been sent a barbarian—did you think no one would look for you?"

"And on whose authority do you act?" Xiuying snapped. "The emperor will have you and all your fellows executed, and it will not surprise you that we cannot promise we will be inclined to fall to our knees and plead for clemency—"

"The emperor? The emperor, who crawls on his belly to the witch-queen of the great horde," the man spat, and oh, what a great pile of insults he was prepared to heap; westerners, Taban thought, liked insults nearly as much as they liked titles.

She didn't bother listening. She was still bleeding, and it wasn't as easy as it should have been to keep her feet, to hold steady. And of course she must be careful not to slit the man's throat too soon, when Xiuying hadn't finished with him yet. She blinked and drew a slow breath, let it carefully out, and then almost stumbled—because Xiuying had shoved the man backward against her, had grabbed for his hands to examine them and was tugging something free. A ring?

"This—this is the seal of Commissioner Yang," Xiuying said.

"And the prefect of Wulantou answers to Commissioner Yang," the man agreed, "and even now the city guard is surely coming—"

"Enough," Xiuying snapped, and surely that meant Taban could kill him now. Except—except Xiuying had her sword hand, was gripping it tightly, and somehow they had turned, though Taban wasn't sure quite when it had happened. Bayar was whuffling at her, soft warm face very close; and then not so close, Xiuying tugged at her and saying, "Come on—come _on_."

Lucky she knew how to mount up so well it was nearly reflex, had done it half-asleep and even drunk. Lucky, too, that Bayar knew well how to stand steady, no matter how unkindly or unsteadily Taban must be yanking at her. "Sorry," Taban muttered to her, and then with a great heave and an unnecessarily bewildering movement of the world, she was up.

After that, it was—it all came in flashes, shards. Xiuying wasn't behind her; and then was, and Taban felt dimly regretful to have missed the spectacle she must have made in scrambling up. The crowd had thinned so much around them during the fighting, people ducking and running, that there was room to ride now. And then the wall—they truly hadn't been far from the west gate of the city. The road was stone after all, Taban could hear the difference in the sound of Bayar's hooves; and at least they were outside again.

She had been entirely right, she thought, not to like cities.

 

*

 

She didn't know how long it was before they stopped, only that it had grown dark and that they'd already begun to move more slowly. She realized belatedly that the noise had changed again, Bayar crossing grass and soft ground—that they weren't on the imperial road anymore?

And then she became gradually aware of a new sound: water. Water, and the hiss of words in her ear, Xiuying's low murmuring voice. Almost as lovely as the water, except for the things she was saying.

"—stupid thoughtless barbarian—"

"That is harsh of you to say," Taban muttered to her, bleary. "I saved you, you know."

"You have bled all over me," Xiuying corrected, sharp. "You got yourself hit in the head and you bled all over me, you are useless and frustrating and unhelpful—"

Her voice was growing high, strained; Taban fumbled a hand around to find her wrist, the ball of her thumb, and to smooth a clumsy soothing touch along it, and thought distantly that she wasn't sure her head had ever ached so badly.

Xiuying fell silent behind her, and for a moment she almost drifted away again. But then she felt Xiuying's hand move, and the reins with it, and Bayar slowing further still; and then they came to a stop; and then Xiuying was prodding at her, pulling, dragging—

"All right, all right," she managed, and flopped herself down—like a dead fish, not a soldier of the khatun dismounting, but at least she didn't bring the whole saddle with her.

And like this, holding still, nothing moving, Taban felt better. Her head did hurt; but it wouldn't be the worst injury she'd ever gotten, she could tell that much already. She knew where she was, and could stand unaided—she was doing very well indeed, for someone who'd been hit in the head with a sword.

"You idiot," Xiuying said, and Taban blinked and realized she had reached for her head, unthinking, and that was fresh dark blood on her fingertips.

"It's not that bad," she said, except she said it in her own tongue; she had to stop and think hard to come up with the western that meant the same thing, and it was wasted effort in any case: Xiuying didn't look much like she believed it.

"I have never met anyone so stupid," Xiuying said flatly, and pushed Taban down beside the water. "You should not have done that. You should—you should not have done any of that. You never wanted to come west at all."

As if she needed to remind Taban of that! Taban scowled at her halfheartedly.

"You should have left me alone and gone east—"

"Oh, for— _westerners_ ," Taban said. "You are so soft and fat and vapid, you do not understand anything that matters, you have no _honor_. I swore that I would do this, that I would stay with you, and I will."

And it was the truth. It was only the truth. There was no reason why she should listen to her own words and feel awry, mistaken, as though something had been left out; there was no reason why she should look up at Xiuying's face, the tight flat line of her mouth and those enormous dark eyes, and want to take it back.

"I swore it," she muttered again, "that's all," and she didn't care whether it was a lie, she decided. She was tired, and her head hurt, and there was blood drying, thick and flaking, in her hair.

She had closed her eyes. She knew it only because it took her by surprise, to realize Xiuying had moved—to feel Xiuying's cool forehead press for a moment against her own.

"You are so stupid," Xiuying whispered, very softly. And then she guided Taban carefully down by the water's edge, dipped the sleeve of her deel in the river, and that was how Taban fell asleep: with Xiuying's open palm, careful, bracing, against her cheek, and Xiuying's narrow fingers in her hair, and water trickling, sweet and cool, washing the blood away a drop at a time.

 

*

 

She was better in the morning.

Which was good, because they had no time to waste. She was still bleeding a little, but not much; Xiuying had combed out her hair very thoroughly, and she managed to braid it up again without tugging the whole wound open.

It was clear that only speed would help them now. They had left all those men in Wulantou alive, and so Commissioner Yang, whoever he was, would be or perhaps already was aware that Xiuying was alive, and that she and Taban had left Wulantou; and surely he could guess very well that they must be headed to the imperial capital.

So they didn't need to be careful anymore, not as much as they needed to be fast.

They didn't speak. Xiuying didn't seem to feel a need; and Taban might have broken the silence, except that every time their eyes met all the words fell out of her head. After about the third time, she tried not to look at Xiuying so often, and that helped a little.

And it helped, too, that she could mount up on her own. It felt strange, suddenly heavy with significance, to reach down and hold her hand out to Xiuying; but she did it and didn't let herself falter, gripped Xiuying's arm steadily and pulled her up, and then it was the work of mere moments to take them away from the riverbank and back up to the level of the imperial road. And then—

Well. Then, there was nothing to be done but ride.

It didn't take long for Taban's head to begin to ache again. It was almost like that first day, except that she had traded the relentless daze of exhaustion for a head wound; but that half-dreaming feeling of things passing by at an indefinable distance was the same, even if the land around them was different, the road, the way they passed not grass and grass and more grass, but running children, women with loads balanced neatly on their heads, farmers driving cattle along the roadside.

And Xiuying, too, was different—or not Xiuying herself, but—

But how it felt to touch her, to ride all day pressed against her; to feel a deep wordless satisfaction at the thought that Yang's soldiers had not taken her, that she was within the circle of Taban's arms, where she belonged.

What a stupid thing to think. Xiuying was right: Taban was an idiot.

By the evening, she had decided they had better speak, if only to decide whether to press on through the night or not. She waited for the sun to drop low, as if that were all that had made her think to ask. Her head was all right, or at least not in immediate danger of rolling off her neck, and that was no reason to stop if it would be safer to keep going.

But Xiuying didn't make her argue the point. She didn't say anything for a long moment, long enough to make Taban think she hadn't heard; and when she did speak, the words hardly made any sense.

"Yes, we should stop. And then you and Bayar must go back."

"What?" Taban said, baffled.

"You and Bayar must go back," Xiuying said, and it made no more sense the second time around. "Or—I suppose I will not get very far walking, but you—you must not do anything rash. Do you understand? I do not know what will happen when we reach the imperial city. You swore an oath, yes, very well; but if the emperor decides to have me executed—"

"Executed? For what? For traveling so far and at such risk to warn him that he has been betrayed and his black powder stolen?"

"I have never met him," Xiuying said, very cool and even.

"You are a princess—"

"I am his cousin," Xiuying agreed, "but I have never met him, I have never seen him. I do not know him, and I do not know what he will do. Or even if it will be him—if we are too late, if Commissioner Yang had already set out for the capital the day it happened—you see? It could all go very badly. Surely your oath was not meant to be kept in the face of all the imperial guard."

"You are truly determined to insult me," Taban murmured after a long moment, deliberately light—though for all she knew, Xiuying could feel very well how her heart was pounding.

"It is no battle of yours," Xiuying said sharply. "If I die I will have brought it on myself, and can blame no one; but you—it is not necessary, Taban. Even your people cannot possibly be so stubborn that you would be faulted for doing what is reasonable—"

And here, here was the moment to explain it all so that Xiuying would finally understand. That this was how it was, among the horde: that if you had sworn to kill someone, you did it or died trying; that if you had sworn your loyalty, your protection, it was understood that that too might demand your life. It was tradition, the foundation from which khagans and khatuns ruled all the eastern steppe, and it was as inconceivable to choose to break your own oath as to—to climb into the sky and pull the sun down, to pluck out your own eyes and feed them to your hunting eagle.

But Taban didn't say that. She didn't say any of it.

She leaned forward, caught both reins in one hand and settled Bayar to a gentle walk beneath them, and then let the other settle at last where it wished to go, against the curve of Xiuying's soft waist; tucked her chin over the line of Xiuying's shoulder, Xiuying's smooth dark hair against her cheek, and then she murmured against Xiuying's ear, "Even if I had not sworn at all, Xiuying—you must know I would not leave you now. Surely you must know."

Xiuying was still against her for a long moment. And then all at once she twisted round—not far, she couldn't in the saddle, but she turned enough in Taban's arms that suddenly they were looking at each other. Her eyes were dark and very intent, flicking across Taban's face with restless urgency; and Taban couldn't even have said which one of them it was that moved, only that it happened—that their mouths touched at last, in a single instant that nevertheless felt unending.

Taban dropped the reins, then, sank a hand at last into that lovely hair and closed her eyes. She was a soldier of the khatun, she had sworn herself to Xiuying as kheshig; she had been prepared to die, at least as well as anyone could hope to be. But she hadn't been prepared for a thing like this—not to find it, and not, having found it, to think that so soon she might lose it.

 

*

 

They did ride through the night. As if, Taban thought, either of them could have slept in any case, knowing what might be waiting for them when they woke. Besides, it wasn't so bad to be awake—to ride through the dark, Bayar steady and surefooted over all that sturdy imperial stone, and hold on.

The imperial city rose up before them in the very first light of dawn, walls and painted gates and gleaming tiles. And already they weren't alone upon the road, but Xiuying had insisted that it wouldn't matter—and then she explained why.

"You are certain," Taban said, when she was done.

"Yes," Xiuying said, without hesitating. And if she had—

If she had, even for the briefest moment, Taban wouldn't have done it. It was all too easy to recall that moment, just after the black powder, when she had found Xiuying in the wreckage of the ludicrous tent—when Taban had reached for a knife and Xiuying had thought it would be to kill her.

And little wonder, Taban thought, when she couldn't even be sure that her emperor, her own cousin, wouldn't kill her.

But: Xiuying hadn't hesitated. So when they rode up to the soldiers of the imperial guard who were stationed at the gate, Taban had her sword pressed carefully against Xiuying's throat.

The guards didn't recognize Xiuying, of course—but Commissioner Yang's was not the only personalized seal Xiuying had with her, and they knew as well as anyone that the emperor had sent gifts and a princess to the khatun of the great horde. Could they afford to ignore the possibility that that same princess was being returned to them at the point of a barbarian sword? Taban phrased the question thoughtfully and then smiled at them, and the nervous glances they cast at each other said they didn't feel the answer to be yes.

They were led along the great avenue down the center of the imperial capital with an escort, two dozen soldiers. And it must have looked very strange, Taban thought, placid Bayar strolling along, with Taban in her horde armor and Xiuying held carefully against her, and the three of them so thoroughly surrounded.

The palace was like a city within a city—more walls, more gates, and the deeper they were taken within its endless courtyards, the better Taban began to understand how it was possible that Xiuying had never before ventured outside of it.

She thought of the khatun's palace and nearly laughed; but, truth be told, she didn't want to dismount if she could help it. It would be a clumsy maneuver at best, when she had to keep the sword to Xiuying's throat. And if they left Bayar—there was no telling what the imperial guard would do with her, or whether she would still be alive at all by the time they were finished with this.

But western palace steps were broad, and western palace doors were tall, and in all the relentless vastness of this place, there seemed to be nothing of a size to keep Bayar from going through it. Then again, Taban thought, if they had had to carry Xiuying out of here in a cart without wheels—perhaps she shouldn't be surprised after all.

She was almost startled, when at last a vast pair of doors opened before them and it led not into yet another stone courtyard, but into a grand hall instead. A grand hall that was very long, with figures in a great deal of embroidered silk arrayed upon raised galleries to either side, all their startled faces turning at once to look over, and—

And surely there, at the far end, raised higher still upon that great gleaming throne—surely that must be the emperor.

The guards wouldn't kill them here, not unless the emperor ordered it; Taban lowered her sword, slid it back into its sheath, and then swung herself down off Bayar. Xiuying was only a motion behind her—and she had nothing but the deel Taban had given her, but she folded her hands and tucked them into its sleeves as though it were the finest robe she had ever worn, and inclined her head, and then began to walk the length of the audience hall toward the emperor.

Taban was expecting—she didn't know what she had been expecting. But it hadn't been for Xiuying to proceed nearly the whole way without interruption; to perform three deep bows and then kneel three times while Taban dropped down awkwardly behind her, a beat late every time; and then to lower her face to the floor and say, "We beg the beloved Son of Heaven to show us mercy, and forgive us for our reckless impudence."

Taban risked the barest glance. She could see what the soldier in Wulantou had meant, when he'd said the emperor was barely more than a boy; he did look young. But he had a sober and well-composed face, and though all this must have been a great surprise indeed to him, he didn't show it.

"That will depend," he said after a moment, in a steady clear voice. "What is the meaning of this?"

"We were sent, by the will of the Son of Heaven, for the khatun of the great steppe," Xiuying said, and Taban wanted almost to shout at her—surely he _knew_ that already, if he had been the one to give the order? Why was she telling him again?

But then there was a murmur—the other nobles, Taban thought. The emperor wasn't their only audience, and only a few of them were at all likely to know Xiuying by sight.

So Taban bit her tongue and resolved herself to listen instead.

"—and there was a great explosion," Xiuying was saying. "The camp was destroyed, and many were killed, and we understood at once that it must have been some great enemy of Your Imperial Majesty. We felt it was our duty to return, and give warning of this grave peril."

"An explosion," the emperor repeated. "You speak of black powder—which is not used except by our own express order."

"We are no general," Xiuying said, face still downturned, demure. "We know only what occurred; we cannot claim to have perceived the cause. But if indeed it were so—the Son of Heaven is truly wise to perceive the potential danger."

"This great enemy," the emperor said. "Have you any evidence as to their identity?"

"We would not dare presume to speculate. But it occurs to us that perhaps there is some relevance in an incident that took place mere days ago. We were attacked as we embarked in travel upon the imperial roadway. One of the soldiers bore a seal."

Without moving, without even looking up, Xiuying extended an arm and set the ring upon the floor. The emperor gestured with two fingers—and some official or other stepped forward, as though he had been called by name, and bent to retrieve it; and then carried it to another, who bore a tray upon which it could be set; and then this, at last, was brought up to the emperor.

Westerners, Taban thought.

She realized she had, without intending it, lifted her head again—but no one seemed to have noticed, or if they had, they'd evidently decided that propriety in the presence of the emperor couldn't be expected from a barbarian. So perhaps she might as well watch.

She'd been hoping for some reaction; but though the emperor surely recognized the seal, he simply regarded it with cool interest for a moment, and then looked back at Xiuying.

"And you come into our presence in this manner," the emperor murmured, "unannounced, the captive of a soldier of the khatun, to dispense this warning."

"Captive? Do we appear captive?" Xiuying said, tone in every respect suggestive of genuine curiosity. "A misunderstanding, surely, Your Imperial Majesty. Our concern for the beloved Son of Heaven was so great—your humble servant may well have acted unwisely, or in haste, and must yet again beg your forgiveness."

And when she was finished, there was only silence.

Surely that couldn't be all. Could it? Someone would _do_ something now, or say something; the nobles would all go out and gather their armies, and ride off to wherever Commissioner Yang kept himself, and drag him out screaming so the emperor might duel him properly—

"We appreciate your concern," the emperor said, "and will consider all that you have told us. General Guo and General Liao will escort you in safety to the khatun of the east, that our will may be done; and a summons will be sent to Commissioner Yang of the northern region, who we are sure will attend us in due course."

 

*

 

They were led away almost immediately, and Bayar with them—but they were taken off to some fine set of chambers off a courtyard somewhere, and Bayar presumably to somewhere considered more appropriate for a horse.

And once all the servants and officials and guards had gone away again, Taban could finally take Xiuying by the arm and say, "But—was that all?"

Xiuying blinked at her. "Was that—yes," she said. "Yes, of course. I still cannot believe it, it is—he has assigned two of his highest-ranking generals to convey me back to the border in safety, after I told him Yang had attacked us on the way here. He listened, he was—he must have believed me. And it was not too late after all. If he had thought me a liar," she added, "or wished to be rid of me and to let me know it, he could have chosen—oh, Ai-zhen, perhaps, or Cao; they are allies of Yang's if they are anyone's, if I remember rightly. They would have killed me for him within a day."

Taban stared at her. "You westerners," she said at last, when she had found her voice again; and Xiuying reached for her, caught her hands and squeezed them, and then smiled at her.

And it was that smile, at last, that made Taban believe her. It was wide and bright, unhesitatingly glad—no hint of calculation or urgency, nor even of restraint, the still lake without ripples, was in evidence.

"We will be able to rest," Xiuying said, "and bathe, and they have promised to bring us Bayar tomorrow before we leave—" And then she stopped short and bit her lip, and looked away; though her hands, if anything, were closed more tightly now around Taban's than they had been a moment ago. "So we may travel back to the border in comfort and safety, and—and then you may take me to the khatun."

Ah.

"Yes," Taban murmured, light. "It will be good to see Altankhurem again, and to learn whether there were survivors of the black powder, besides the two of us. And of course it will be glorious, to have a story of such deeds to tell the khatun."

Xiuying looked at her and then away, and didn't answer.

And she moved a little, as if to withdraw her hands; but Taban didn't let them go. "Because, you see," she added, watching Xiuying carefully, "I will have done the khatun a great service, and—in the way of our people—she will offer me a boon in recompense."

And that, at last, made Xiuying look at her again, with those wide dark eyes. "A boon."

"Oh, indeed," Taban agreed. "I may ask for anything I wish that is within her power to give, and she will grant it. The khatun has many wives, you know," and Xiuying was smiling just a little now, the barest slant tucked away in the corner of that lovely mouth. "Even a handful of husbands," and the smile grew wider. "She is a generous woman," Taban added in a murmur, leaning in, "and I do not think she will begrudge me just one of them."

The smile tasted just as lovely as it looked; and perhaps it wasn't entirely a bad thing after all, Taban thought distantly, to be here in this palace, with this very large and western-soft bed.

 

 


End file.
